The vet deftly opened the stomach and spread it out. The stench was one of wet, hot ferment. She poked around the contents and looked up at Service. “Mostly empty, and nothing obvious, but we’ll do tox, see what turns up. Not a lot of gastric juices for so big a stomach,” she said. “And no visibile sign of human parts.” She turned to the animal’s head, rolled up its jowl, checked teeth. “Given the condition of his choppers, I’m thinking the boy would have trouble with a Jell-O diet, much less bone and meat. He mighta chewed with no result. We’ll have two-way DNA.”
“Well, it looks like something gnawed on the deceased,” Service said.
“True, but maybe not this old fella,” the vet said. She leaned close to look at the animal’s eyes. “Advanced cataracts,” she observed, not looking up at the men.
Service watched her touch one of the bear’s eyes.
“I’m thinking this animal is either functionally blind or darn close to lights out,” she said. The vet looked past the animal, saw Noonan’s damaged boot. “You the shooter?”
Noonan nodded.
“My guess is, it wasn’t a charge. He just wanted out and away, panicked, ran the wrong direction and couldn’t see or smell. . . . Hey,” she said, “look at me, man.”
Noonan did as ordered. She said, “If a bear goes into a human dwelling, it’s committing suicide no matter what happens next.”
Noonan grunted. “Something charges me, it dies—end of story. No remorse.”
Dr. Tork the younger raised an eyebrow. “People included?”
“Especially,” Noonan said.
The vet and the retired cop maintained eye contact for what seemed like a long time to Service. “Are we about done here?” he asked.
“Call it finito,” Tork said. “I’ll send samples to Michigan State to conclude the official necropsy, and another set to the US Fish and Wildlife forensics lab in Oregon, see what they come up with.”
“How long for results?” Service asked.
“Honestly? When they can get to them. Great facilities, too much work, not enough qualified people, shrinking budgets; you all know the math. The times we live in, eh? When it happens, it happens.”
Not the answer Service wanted. He asked the vet to come inside with him, caught Friday’s attention, took her with them.
The body remained where he had found it. “The ME got some hairs here. You, too?”
“Yeah, wanna see?”
“No, but what are they from? The bear, the carpet, or Mr. Nepo?”
The young vet set her jaw. “Neither. One set might look canid to the naked eye, though the color seems off by a bit.”
“Canid, meaning?”
“Canis lupus,” she said. “Best guess at this juncture.”
“Wolf, but could be a dog,” Service said.
“That’s certainly one possibility,” Tork said.
“There are others?”’
“Almost always,” she said. “Let’s wait for tox results and all the data.”
“You can differentiate dog from wolf DNA with hair?”
“Usually. The mitochondrial DNA difference between dog and wolf is around one percent, which doesn’t sound like much, but it is. By comparison, scientists believed for a long time that human and chimpanzee DNA differed by two percent, but we’re learning more and more about the DNA of both, and now the diff is up to five percent and increasing, as DNA studies and capabilities increase. Having said all this, DNA generalities are virtually worthless for all but the most general, and therefore, meaningless, discussions.”
“The odds are, there will be ambiguity and uncertainty?” he asked.
“Of course; this is science, not magic,” she reminded them.
Service said, “The hairs Friday found are red. Are there red wolves?”
“Yes, of course—Canis rufus rufus, but none of them are left in the wild except for a small population along the Mexican border,” said Tork. “The thing is, though, all wolf subspecies have some sort of known red hair tone. It depends on diet and habitat, and genetics, of course. Canis rufus rufus is smaller than Canis lupus. Are you aiming for a particular outcome with this line of questioning?” she asked.
“Not exactly sure,” he said. How could he make Friday understand? He was frustrated in part because it seemed that Friday didn’t understand the implications of a monster hunt. In fact, he wasn’t even sure he had a full understanding, but it was a lot more than she had. The word that twisted in his mind was frenzy.
“Okay,” Friday said. “We’ve heard from the vet. Now what?”
Service said, “We wait for DNA and tox results. We don’t know anything yet.”
“Does it matter?” Friday asked. “On the upside, an animal declaration would give us an edge, make our perp think we’re diverted and off his trail. If rumors say dogman, that doesn’t matter because we know our perp is a two-footer, not four-. He’ll be glad we zigged instead of zagged,” she reasoned. “Maybe it will affect what he does next, and how.”
“Maybe for you,” Service allowed. “But if you do that, the rest of us have to treat the dogman as a legit animal, and that won’t be helping us or you. The whole dogman thing is bullshit, a figment of somebody’s imagination. Ask the vet.”
“Is there something going on here I ought to be aware of?” Anna Tork asked. “Did someone say ‘dogman’?”
“It was said,” Service said. “Yes.”
“Interesting,” Tork said. “Cryptozoology at its most insidious.”
“More like cryptobullshit,” Service muttered.
“Is it?” the vet challenged. “In the late nineties, surveys showed fifty-four percent of American adults believed in angels, and almost half in aliens from outer space. Earlier this year Pew reported a survey showing belief in angels is up to sixty-eight percent. There’s no empirical data for such beliefs, yet people believe. What’s the diff if you believe in Bigfoot or Christian dogma?”
“Are you defending fools?” Service asked.
“I’m defending the right of people to believe what they choose to believe, rational or not. At the base level, what religion is rational? Faith isn’t rational. It’s something else, and more compelling than facts for a lot of people.”
“Look,” Service said sharply, “that’s philosophy, or whatever. We’re talking about the possibility of making public a dogman’s involvement in a series of killings, and obviously, there is no dogman, but Friday wants us to announce it in hopes that we can convince our perp that the dogman is the subject of our investigation, which may give us an advantage in hunting the actual perp.”
“Who says there’s no dogman?” the vet asked, and this brought sudden silence. “I can neither confirm nor deny such a thing. You can’t prove a negative.”
Service rubbed his head. “I’m going crazy.”
“Nonsense,” Tork said. “Rationality and good science demand that we calmly and deliberately examine everything, including apparent irrationality.”
“And?” Tuesday Friday asked.
“New species, or those previously thought extinct, are still found from time to time,” the vet ventured.
Service said, “In this country? New large mammals?”
“No, not here, not yet, but that doesn’t preclude it from happening. We still have a lot of empty space, and that’s invariably where they show up. Theoretically there are lots of possibilities we’d all like to ignore.”
Service couldn’t believe he was part of this conversation and wished he had kept his mouth shut, but at least the vet had taken samples and eventually there would be results. He prayed they’d be worth something. “I’m seeking substance,” he said, “And finding vapor.”
“What’s your dogman look like?” Tork asked.
“No clue,” Service said. “Never seen one. Nobody’s seen one. They don’t fucking exis
t.”
“How about we let the toxicology tests come back. Meanwhile, I’ll look at the dogman in my own way and time.”
The ME approached with a bag of darker hair. “These were on the floor. After examining the deceased, I’m sure he had a form of hypertrichosis.”
“Meaning?
“He was massively hairy,” the ME said.
Service said. “So what?”
“Hypertrichosis, sometimes called werewolf syndrome.”
Service clamped his jaws shut and walked away, leaving the women together.
“What’s crackin’?” Treebone asked.
“I think we are about to birth a monster,” Service said.
Tree nodded. “Deep . . .”
16
Tuesday, November 4
SLIPPERY CREEK CAMP
The situation at Sands Station deteriorated into a full-blown argument, with Service and Friday bellowing insults at each other before storming apart. “Look,” she’d quailed, “I’m trying to find a murderer.”
“Human, not animal.”
“Goddammit, Grady, we’re behind the curve and need an edge, even a small one.”
He’d shaken his head. “Do you remember the story of the first thermonuclear weapon, fusion instead of fission?”
“No,” she said with obvious irritation.
“Scientists made a miscalculation, which yielded the biggest goddamn bomb in history—thirty times more than the experts had calculated.”
“We’re not dealing with physics,” Friday said.
“That’s my point,” he shot back. “This is about human beings, the most bloodthirsty, unpredictable creatures in the universe!”
Friday had exhaled loudly, barked “Asshole,” got into her vehicle, and slammed the door.
Service, Noonan, and Treebone drove back to Slippery Creek in awkward silence. Allerdyce had disappeared at Sands Station, and Service wasn’t interested in waiting or searching for the old poacher.
Camp was quiet all night, and when Service awoke, Allerdyce was in the kitchen, had made coffee, and was working on breakfast.
“G’head, make yourself at home,” Service mumbled.
“Why youse got grumples?”
A young man with almond-colored hair came out of the downstairs bathroom. “Flush,” Allerdyce ordered, and the boy went back and did as he was told.
Allerdyce pointed at a chair. “Sit.”
The young man sat stiffly, head up, hands on his knees.
“Donte DeJean, meet Dickteckative Service.”
“You the one who pointed us to the Little Huron?” Service asked.
The boy nodded.
“Youse got a voice, boy,” Allerdyce growled. “Use it.”
“Yes, it was me.”
Service said, “You left before we could talk to you and thank you.”
“DeJeans don’t expect thank-yous from the DNR,” the boy said.
“You turned in your brother. That took courage,” Service said.
“Turned in the situation, not my brother,” the boy corrected.
Service sat down across from the boy. “Care to explain?”
Allerdyce turned from the stove, said, “Tell da man what youse tole me.”
The boy shrugged. “I seen it,” he said.
“It?” Treebone asked, striding into the kitchen.
“You know,” Donte DeJean said, staring at the hulking Treebone.
“You afraid of black folks?” Treebone asked.
“Ain’t never seen one so big up this close,” the boy said. “ ’Cept on the TV.”
“Now you met a real one, not one on TV,” Treebone said. “What did you mean you saw it?”
“The thing I saw,” the boy said.
“Describe it,” Service said, thinking, Oh, God.
“Hairy,” DeJean said.
“Bear, wolf, cougar, moose—what?” Service asked. “Be specific.”
“Two legs,” the boy said softly. “Sort of like a person.”
“Person in a fur coat?” Service ventured.
“Not like that,” the boy said. “The fur looked real.”
“You see this, whatever it was, near the Little Huron?”
“Once there, twice over by Ketchkan Lake, and another time up by Bulldog Lake.”
Tentative, not certain. Service tried to process the information and sites. Ketchkan was near where the actual twenty-point buck had been killed, a place that nurtured an extraordinary percentage of large deer and some moose. Service closed his eyes and summoned his mind map: It was all within a fifteen-mile radius, with Twenty Point Pond pretty much at the center. “Is seeing this thing at the Little Huron what got you to turn in your brother?”
DeJean nodded. “I guess.”
“At the old trailer?”
“Near there, on the road, west of the river.”
“Were you alone?”
The boy shook his head.
“Daly didn’t see it?”
“I was with Sean Nepo, and he seen it with me.”
“You and Nepo were there for what?”
“Fishing.”
“But Nepo saw something more, is that it?”
“Yeah, and he told Daly.”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“No, I seen the thing and Sean followed it, and then he come back, grabbed me, said we had to get out of there, so we booked.”
“Sean didn’t tell you what else he saw?”
“No, he was toking like crazy. We bought beer and he dropped me at the old man’s house, and he and Daly went off somewhere.”
Noonan strolled into the kitchen, stretching.
“Hair color?” Service asked.
“Light,” the boy said.
“Blond, white, gray—how light?”
“Sort of gray tips, real long hair.”
“Size?” Treebone asked.
“Not tall, maybe five-ten, six foot, but big, like the Hulk, okay? I was fifty yards off . . . hard to judge exactly.”
“Scrambled eggs, coffee, sausage links good for ever-body?” Allerdyce asked.
Service said to Tree, “Man, not monster.”
The two men looked at Noonan, who nodded agreement.
“You see a face, feet, hands, details?” Service asked the boy.
“It was too far away, but I saw it didn’t run as much as it hopped, and it didn’t have no clothes, just hair.”
“Hopped . . . like a kangaroo?” Noonan asked.
“More like a snowshoe hare,” DeJean said. “Big jumps, covering ground real quick.”
“This the first time you saw it?” Service asked. “At the Little Huron?”
“The last time I seen it.”
“Four times, and you’ve never reported it?”
“Who to?” the boy shot back. “Not my old man. My brothers? I kept my mouth shut.”
Service said, “Use your hand if you can, and show us how it moved.”
The boy sat the heel of his hand on the table, fingers straight up, and nosed the hand forward in an arc, hitting on the fingers, and pulling the heel underneath to the original starting position.
“You saw two legs and two arms?” Service pressed.
“Yessir.”
“Did Nepo know you’d seen it before?”
Donte DeJean shook his head. “Sean was real scared, and we didn’t do no talking that day.”
“Can you show us where you saw this thing—exact locations?”
“Not a problem,” the boy said.
Service telephoned Friday. “We have a witness who alleges he saw whatever was out on the Little Huron.”
“Well, hello and good morning to you, too,” she said sharply.
“He claims four
sightings of this thing.”
“Description?”
“We’re working on that, and we’re gonna go check sighting locations. You want to come along?”
“No, I’ve got scut to sort through, waiting for tox results and all that,” she said. “Who is this witness?”
“Donte DeJean.”
“The one who tipped us on the Little Huron?”
“One and the same.”
“You think he’s credible?”
“We’ll find out.”
“Two-legged or four-legged?” she asked.
“He claims two-, but that’s still up in the air.”
“Let me know,” she said, and hung up.
“Female problems?” Tree asked.
“More of a professional disagreement,” Service said.
Treebone laughed out loud. “There ain’t no such separation between personal and professional when you and your old lady are involved.”
“Are youses gone eat, or I waste my time makin’ dis grub?” Allerdyce asked.
Service called Denninger, and she told him the weather in east Baraga County was snowy, temperature dropping, northwest winds picking up to twenty knots, gusting higher. He knew they wouldn’t be able to see anything in such conditions, but when the storm passed, animals would start moving and feeding again. With all the leaves down, they would have a really good look at the terrain, which was what he wanted. Little Huron, Twenty Point, Ketchkan, Bulldog: What did they have in common?
“What’s the guess on how long this storm will blow?” he asked her.
“Twenty-four to thirty-six hours until it lays down.”
“You working?” he asked.
“No, gotta go get some half-hard. I’ve been playing with dead-soft, but that just ain’t cutting it; see what I’m saying?”
“Half-hard?”
She laughed out loud. “Jewelry wire, you moron. My new hobby. Who you voting for?”
“What’re my choices?”
“Obama and McCain.”
“I choose Teddy Roosevelt.”
“He’s not on the ballot.”
“Don’t I know it,” he said. “Half-hard is wire, no joke?”
Killing a Cold One Page 11
